


Deal

by fasciinating



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek (2009), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established James T. Kirk/Spock, Established Relationship, Hurt Spock (Star Trek), Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, soft shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fasciinating/pseuds/fasciinating
Summary: Spock is injured on an away mission and despite having never agreed not to die, comes to learn the reward for keeping silent is sometimes worth it.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock, Kirk/Spock
Comments: 7
Kudos: 112





	Deal

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever; a one-shot, that's completely un'beta'ed, so I apologize in advance for any writing blunders that might appear in here. I'm working on series but that's taking too long so I decided to post a little thing to hopefully gauge interest and feedback before settling in for something bigger. So please, comments or kudos would be greatly appreciated. <3 Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek or its characters, nor am I affiliated with Paramount. Shout out to traiilblazer for their amazing Jim inspiration.

“ _Don’t die_.” He’d said. Captain Kirk. 

Spock remembers it quite vividly from four point five days earlier, from before he left to the surface of _Ceta III_. From before what was supposed to have been a peaceful mission, ended up in flames and shouting, bruised skin and wet scores of emerald green. 

When Spock finds himself in the med bay, the atmosphere breathes much differently than the feeling of dirt in his lungs. The air is clean. Unsullied and without solemn. Without the empty promises Spock dared not make despite Jim’s declaration to _lay a fat one on him_ or something of that nature, should Spock return safe and very much alive. 

The sound of the Captain’s voice cuts across the room as Jim strides with better confidence than he’d possessed before. It’s an underlayer of cheer, Spock recognizes. Of optimism. Sung so loudly that Spock can very nearly envision how it must look across the split of Jim’s lips, all teeth and hopeful attitudes, even though his eyes are closed. The Captain has always, determinedly, covered the truth of his emotions well. 

Admittedly, a part of Spock prefers it this way. The lie in Jim’s grin. It’s a selfish endeavor, over sight and opportunity above all others; to go as far as having desired it, pleaded for it, in his worse moments, when Jim could find no reason to do so despite Spock’s best efforts. Not when Spock had been shot four point two days ago. 

Between quiet negotiations and insurgency, there was disrupter fire, burned through and past, _into_ , his third and fourth rib. Spock’s right lung was nearly exposed through his uniform. A green and black mess, covered in a fine layer of wet dirt, rain soaked through his tunic. He had been freezing. Though, from blood loss or the dropping temperature, he cannot recall for sure. 

But Jim is smiling now, grinning wide. And not as he hadn’t been.

Not as he’d looked, when he ordered his First Officer _not to die_.

That is something. 

“Hey.”

To that voice, Spock stirs. His eyes are dark and thin, like two black slivers in his face as he opens them, blinks up and sees Jim seated at the edge of his bed. The Captain’s hair, in a soft halo of gold beneath the dim light above their heads. It’s just the two of them, Spock realizes, glancing beyond Jim’s face and around the room. Spock opens his mouth, attempting to shift and sit straighter, but all that comes out is the quick draw of his breath into newly repaired organs. 

A hand gently plants itself on his thigh, “You know, I should be pissed at you right now. I wanna be—.” Jim huffs, revealing more teeth as his eyes retreat briefly toward the ceiling. “But, uh.” Jim laughs, a short, defeated sound, before their eyes meet. Spock stares at the crease of crow’s feet wrinkling Jim’s gaze, “Turns out, you kept your end of the deal.”

Jim has come to collect, it seems, striding closer with resounding confidence to obtain what Jim asserted in lieu of a funeral. Instinctively, Spock’s eyebrow rises. He does not recall having made such an arrangement. Just that the words were said and not by him.

He says nothing, however. Instead, he leans forward when Jim leans down, eyes closing with the touch of their lips, kissing gently, then more fiercely, molding to one another. A transference of everything — _apology, hope, want, sadness, fear, relief_ , reaching through this, the connection of their mouths and every touch of their skin. In Spock’s lap, their hands have climbed together, fingers coupled, somehow, and without Spock’s knowledge. 

He makes no argument about that either.


End file.
